


Sybarite

by sternfleck



Series: Arcana Imperii [7]
Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alcohol, Chancellor Hux, Drunken Kissing, Drunkenness, Eating, Feeding, Fluff, Hux finally gets out of the house, M/M, Public Display of Affection, Supreme Leader Kylo Ren, Title Kink, civilian disguises, terrible table manners, they're the worst customers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-13
Updated: 2020-06-13
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:40:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24433720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sternfleck/pseuds/sternfleck
Summary: Date night out on Coruscant for the worst not-husbands in the Galaxy.Set in the world of “Duel of the Fates,” the leaked alternate script for Episode 9.
Relationships: Armitage Hux/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren
Series: Arcana Imperii [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1694788
Comments: 6
Kudos: 40





	Sybarite

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Сибарит](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26301346) by [fandom SW IX - Duel of the Fates 2020 (Our_Own_Star_Wars)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Our_Own_Star_Wars/pseuds/fandom%20SW%20IX%20-%20Duel%20of%20the%20Fates%202020), [Lenuchka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lenuchka/pseuds/Lenuchka)



> Here is by far the silliest instalment of a very silly, very self-indulgent series.
> 
> Mild warning for Hux having a tense relationship to food, and for one brief mention of his canonical abusive/traumatic childhood.

“Disguise yourself,” had been Ren’s suggestion when Hux pointed out the colossal safety issues with, not one, but _both_ leaders of the First Order leaving the new Capitol at the same time, for the same low-security location. 

As if civilian clothes are enough to protect the Chancellor and Supreme Leader from harm. An assassin could strike and take them both out, leaving the Order leaderless. An accident could occur. There could be a malfunction of their ship. A targeted Resistance missile could break through the impact shields over Coruscant—unlikely, as the shields are of Hux’s design, but possible nonetheless.

“I would see it coming. Through the Force. I would stop it,” Ren reminded him. “I’m better than a security squad of dozens of your soldiers.”

 _Isn’t that convenient to your plans,_ Hux reflects bitterly now, as he surveys the interior of the café through his sweep of greying ginger hair. The last time he wore his hair down over his forehead was during Coruscant’s winter, when he caught a fever and was too ill to leave his chambers. This diversion has the same pointless, infuriating self-indulgence to it as a sudden illness. But Ren insisted on bringing Hux to this café, on the top floor of the tallest building in Coruscant, as though that’s supposed to impress him. After more than a year as Chancellor, Hux is getting used to opulence, and he’s already accustomed to a far better view. Out of the café’s wide window, the Order Capitol is visible in the dark distance, hovering high above it all.

“We get the tasting menu when I come here with my Knights,” says Ren, pushing his menu away without reading it. “And whatever wines come with it. Don’t bother trying to figure out what the dishes are. They write this stuff to make themselves feel smart.”

Hux squints at the listings on the silver-plated datapad’s shimmering screen. The words in Basic and High Galactic he mostly recognises, though not all. But there are foods listed in Mando’a as well, and even one listing in Shyriiwook, as if anyone would be able to understand that.

“It’s tree bark,” says Ren, skimming through Hux’s mind like a shadow. “It’s good. They smoke it locally.”

Hux doesn’t have much experience with trees, but he’s never thought they looked good to eat. Typical Ren, always dragging him into situations where he can lord his New Republic sophistication over Hux. Stick Ren in the Unknown Regions in a crumbling Imperial-era starship, and he wouldn’t last a day without Hux’s help.

“The tasting menu, then. I trust your Knights’ palates, at least. Though yours leaves much to be desired.”

Ren is the sort of man who will eat half a dozen bags of packaged snack foods obtained from the Order Capitol’s 24-hour store, the one intended for junior officers, and call it a meal. But then there’s this other side of him, the side that will incur security risks to go gallivanting with his Knights to Coruscant’s most highly-rated restaurant. Ren must have done similar things in his younger years, when he was growing up on the various planets of the Galactic Core. He’s never been anything but a paradox, Kylo Ren. Half prince and half disaster. Hux wishes he didn’t find this charming.

Ren leans forward with his elbows on the cloth-draped table. “I like the way you taste. Does that reflect poorly on my palate, Chancellor?”

“Ren, _stars_. Anyone could overhear.” 

Hux cranes upright and peers past the high edge of the circular partition that shields their table from public view. He darts a glance around the café, which is nearly empty at this hour of the evening. There’s a table of humans in the far corner, and a few well-dressed xeno merchants making a deal by the window, where the lights of Coruscant glitter below.

The café isn’t large—Ren described it as “exclusive”—and there’s a luxurious coziness to it, from the curved velvet-covered benches in the private seating pods to the blue plasma heater blazing next to the bar. The ceilings are low, tiled in gold, each tile embossed with the image and name of a planet. Directly above Hux’s head is Chandrila, swirling with tropical storms. Over Ren’s head, there’s a scattering of blank black tiles that Hux assumes are replacements for the tiles of planets now destroyed. Somewhere on this ceiling, there must be a gold tile for Arkanis, but Hux has no wish to find it. 

“There’s nobody here, Hux. Relax. The staff are programmed for secrecy. All the patrons here are screened for political loyalty. Even I had to fill out an application to open my tab. It’s safe. When’s the last time you went to a restaurant?”

The last time Hux went to a restaurant was twelve years ago. He was 26, a common soldier for the First Order, carrying out an assassination on Hosnian Prime. He’d ordered a glass of carbonated water, blasted a man in the head, and fled back to the Order territories in the Outer Rim without delay. Ren can gather all of this from Hux’s memories, so Hux ignores the question.

“Order for me, Supreme Leader,” he says, pushing the datapad to the other side of the table. “I can’t imagine I’ll find anything to my taste. I’ll have the staff prepare my usual rations upon our return to the Capitol.”

“You’re not even trying to have fun.” Ren grabs the datapad and punches in an order, scowling. “People are starving in the streets below us, and you’re complaining because you have to eat elite cuisine instead of...mush.”

It’s the sanctimonious sort of thing Ren’s mother would say. For intelligence research, Hux has suffered through enough Resistance propaganda to know Organa’s style. But if Hux were to speak aloud any comparison between the Supreme Leader and General Organa, he would do so at his own risk. And Hux, despite his ongoing alliance with Kylo Ren, is not actually fond of risk. Hence his apprehension about this entire restaurant endeavour.

He settles for glaring at Ren instead. He’d cross his arms, but that would be childish, and, worse, it would crush the full sleeves of the diaphanous silver jacket he’s chosen to wear over his black blouse. So he restrains himself.

When a droid approaches the table with an angular bottle and a pair of coupe glasses on long hexagonal stems, Hux turns up his nose, to avoid sending any sign that he might accept conversation from the staff. Ren grabs the bottle by the neck along with one of the glasses, and the droid sets the remaining glass in front of Hux before taking its leave. 

“This is a hazardous and pointless errand,” Hux hisses. “If you wanted to get me drunk, you could have brought wine to my chambers.”

Ren uses the Force to tug the cork out of the bottle of wine with a _pop_ that resounds like a blaster shot. Wine foams over the lip of the bottle and down onto the table, golden and frothy. Ren fills his own glass first, then pours wine into Hux’s until it overflows into the Chancellor’s lap. 

Hux maintains his composure through this indignity. He won’t give Ren the harsh words he craves. That would only reward his inane conduct. Hux taps his fingernails along the stem of his glass, idly.

“You are going to make this excursion worth my while, Supreme Leader. In bed, tonight. I expect to be worshipped, obeyed, and fucked until I can’t come anymore.”

Ren looks at him sidelong, mildly incredulous. “Hux. That’s what people do after they go out together. Haven’t you ever been out to dinner?”

This is unfair. Ren knows Hux’s history, and it’s not as though he didn’t have his fun with Hux’s inexperience when he discovered Hux had never fucked anyone else before. It’s not as though Ren has had a normal sex life, either. Nothing about Ren is normal, and he has no right to act like Hux is the odd one for prioritising his military career over...whatever this is supposed to be.

But then Ren slides closer on the curved velvet bench and, with the Force, draws the gauzy curtain that covers the gap in the partition around their table. He puts his hand on Hux’s leg—his big hand, which spans Hux’s slim thigh from one side to another—and runs his fingertips up Hux’s inseam, and suddenly this evening doesn’t seem like such a horrid idea anymore. Hux shifts under the table, spreading his legs. He should have worn a dress instead of his tailored civilian trousers, which, with each long stroke of Ren’s fingers, are well on their way to being too tight. 

“I could start now. Play with you all through our meal. Treat you like an escort.” Ren’s hand drifts higher. “Or a consort.”

Hux sniffs. Ren’s obsessive commitment to Hux, his possessiveness...it’s all silly, of course. Foolish. Sentimental. But it entices Hux nonetheless. Perhaps he’s as much of a fool as Ren is, deep down.

“Yes. Do that.” Hux raises the glass to his lips, and takes a small, careful sip of his wine.

Ren watches him, his heavy hand at rest in Hux’s lap. Hux pauses.

“Do you require something of me, Supreme Leader?”

“Do you like it?”

“I’ve barely tasted it,” says Hux. “It’s very sweet.” It’s also delicious, pure sugar with a pungent mineral tang at the end, and full of the tiniest bubbles that are almost painful on Hux’s tongue.

“The wines from Alderaan are more celebrated. But I thought you’d prefer a personal tribute to our work, Chancellor.”

“Personal, Ren?”

“This wine was produced on Hosnian Cardota.”

Oh. That’s a surprise. The planet called Cardota was the agricultural cornucopia of the Hosnian System. Hux had been almost sorry to follow Snoke’s order to destroy it at the time. It would have been more efficient to destroy only Hosnian Prime and take the rest of the system for the Order, subjugating the other four planets and stripping them of resources. But Hux was so young then, practical to a fault, ignorant of the value of a well-placed act of terror. He’s come to appreciate grand psychological gestures in his middle age. Perhaps that’s Ren’s influence, though Hux doesn’t like to think of himself as a man so easily swayed.

Nevertheless—and perhaps this is only the fault of the first sip of drink—it’s one of Ren’s more effective gestures to think to order Hux a bottle of Cardotan wine.

“It’s fabled as a mild aphrodisiac,” says Ren casually, looking up at the planet-studded ceiling instead of at Hux. “Its presence in the Force is...assertive.”

Ah. Of course there’s a catch. Force-sensitive Cardotan wine that will turn Hux into the Supreme Leader’s personal... Well. Every gift of Ren’s does have its self-serving side.

Hux takes another sip, then another. The wine really is wonderfully sweet. The bubbles burst on his tongue, and each mouthful goes down like honey. He puts his hand out towards Ren, closer and closer, until he can feel the body heat emanating from the Supreme Leader’s civilian attire.

In spite of Ren’s fondness for his grubby pleated tunics and high-waisted leggings, the man does have quite the sense of style when he decides to show it. Tonight he’s in a long black jacket with sharp shoulders and no lapels, and under it, a high-collared shirt made of some rare dark material that gleams with hidden colours in a certain light. His hair is washed and fluffy, brushed back from his face, so that every so often, Hux gets a tantalising view of the lower edge of Ren’s well-shaped ears. He’s not quite as arresting to behold as Hux is, but that’s as it should be. Hux is a star, and Ren is the deep night, the backdrop, the encircling dark of space.

Things are truly out of their usual places if Hux is starting to get poetic about the Supreme Leader. He takes another sip of wine, and notices that Ren has already drained his glass.

“Can you feel any effects, Supreme Leader?”

Ren blinks at Hux in his languid, regal way. “Are you asking me if my dick is hard, Chancellor Hux?”

Hux stares, his hand still outstretched, nearly touching Ren’s shoulder. There’s something hilarious about the entire situation all of a sudden. Hux pinches his lips together to keep from laughing, which only makes the whole scene funnier. But he maintains his composure. He’s the Chancellor of the Galaxy. Dignity is the responsibility of his office.

“Well, Supreme Leader? Is it?”

Ren leans close to Hux, close enough that Hux is washed in the floral, heavy scent of Ren’s extravagant Nabooian hair products. His mouth is very close to Hux’s ear, close to Hux’s neck, which would be a fine place for Ren to put his mouth, if he wanted. Hux tips his chin back, to make Ren’s decision easier for him.

But Ren doesn’t kiss Hux’s neck. His breath grazes hot over it as he says, far too loudly, “Touch me and find out.”

Hux jerks away, wincing. “Mind your volume. You’ll attract attention.”

“No one can see us. I hear their thoughts. They only care about themselves. Get in my lap. Let’s have fun before the first course.”

“I don’t _have fun_ , Ren. It’s incompatible with my position.” 

“I’ll show you your position,” says the Supreme Leader with authority. He waves a finger, and the Force closes around Hux’s waist, lifting him into Ren’s lap. Hux struggles, until Ren replaces his Force-hold with his hands, nearly spanning Hux’s waist. In spite of his better judgment, Hux’s body welcomes Ren’s touch, relaxing instantly. Even through the cloth of Hux’s blouse, Ren’s grip is warm, and he strokes Hux’s ribs and belly in a careful, proprietary way.

“There,” murmurs Ren, nosing at Hux’s nape. “That’s where you belong, Chancellor.”

Ren’s cock is indeed mostly hard under Hux, tucked to one side in his trousers. It’s a good seat for Hux, if they were somewhere private, but not when anyone could peep through their table’s curtain and spot the Chancellor of the Galaxy draped on the Supreme Leader’s lap like a call boy. Even though he writes the laws, Hux has never gotten clear of the sense that someone is looking over his shoulder, waiting for him to slip up. At least, that’s what one part of Hux’s brain is telling him. But there’s another, more rational part that’s aware that between the two of them, they have absolute power over the Galaxy. If this is what Ren wants—and, more importantly, if this is what Hux wants—who would dare stand against them? 

“Don’t let anyone see us,” Hux whispers. He leans back against Ren’s chest and shifts in his lap. “I feel like a criminal.”

“Bad Chancellor,” says Ren with his lips to the side of Hux’s neck. “I sentence you to five courses of Coruscant’s best food. And another glass of wine.”

When Ren pours, he spills it again, this time over both their laps. Hux scoffs at his wasteful behaviour, his deliberate clumsiness. But his scoff turns to a choked moan as Ren bites him, sucking a hard bruise into Hux’s throat. The heat of Ren’s mouth goes straight to Hux’s cock, sure and fierce as an electric current. Ren nibbles at the bruise, marking Hux, and then, when he’s satisfied with his work, kisses the bitten place gently. When Ren pulls away, Hux buries his face in the Supreme Leader’s neck and shuts his eyes, breathless, his heart racing.

“Thanks,” says Ren, but he’s not talking to Hux. There’s a quiet sound of metal on metal, of things being set down on the table. Hux jolts upright and struggles off of Ren’s lap, but the droid is already departing, the curtain falling shut behind it.

“You were supposed to warn me, Ren,” says Hux with a sidelong glare, mainly to give him grief. A droid’s assessment of their situation is of no consequence. Besides, as Ren said, the staff are programmed for secrecy.

There’s an odd thrill of power in this freedom to do what they please. Who else in the Galaxy can boast of such privilege? But in spite of the thrill, Hux intends to abide by his own proper rules for himself. Those rules do not include making a slut of himself with Ren in a semi-public location.

“Eat,” is Ren’s curt reply. He’s already got his chopsticks in hand.

The food on the table is nothing like what Hux is used to, nor is it the chaotic assembly of Republic-style ingredients Hux expected. There’s one main plate, dark and hexagonal, to leave no doubt as to the restaurant’s Order sympathies. In the centre of the plate is a stacked tower of shell-pink creatures that resemble insects, drizzled all over with a noxious-looking black sauce. Hux takes the large pair of serving chopsticks from their stand, to serve himself on his own smaller plate, but he finds he can only hover over the food, uncertain.

“It’s air shrimp,” says Ren, rudely diving in with his personal pair of chopsticks and untangling one of the creatures from the top of the pile. “From Bespin. With Scarif blixus ink coulis.”

Whatever that means. The Supreme Leader shoves the shrimp into his mouth, whole. It makes a crunching noise under his teeth. Hux struggles to suppress a wince. His nose twitches.

“They’re crispy,” says Ren encouragingly. A spot of blixus ink gleams on his chin like another of his moles.

“I’ll stick with wine,” says Hux, and restores the serving chopsticks to their stand, draining his wine glass in one shot. “Ah. I don’t like food with...with _texture_.” 

“You like seafood. That’s why I chose this. I’ve seen you eat fish imported from Arkanis.”

Hux simply tightens his mouth, pressing his thigh against Ren’s, as though he could distract Ren from the challenge at hand by emphasising his own physical presence. If this wine is truly an aphrodisiac, perhaps Ren can be persuaded through flirtation to forget his efforts to expand Hux’s culinary horizons.

“Hux. Chancellor. You can blow up planets but you can’t eat a shrimp? I knew you were a coward, but this is ridiculous.”

“It’s not that I can’t,” Hux specifies. The warmth of the wine is sinking in. “I’m capable of anything. I simply don’t want to. There’s nothing in it for me.”

“There’s the eternal shame of your weakness and cowardice if you refuse.”

Hux sighs. “Fine. I’ll try one.”

But he doesn’t raise his chopsticks. If Ren wants to play this game, he can make it worth Hux’s while. Hux parts his lips expectantly and peers at Ren from under his sweep of hair, half coy, half imperious.

“You want me to feed you,” Ren realises, displeased. “You’re not even making an effort. Come on, Hux. You had to eat all kinds of junk in exile, right? Why are you being a snob about Coruscanti food?”

This is a low blow, invoking Hux’s starving childhood. In fact, the meagre Imperial rations Hux ate in exile were much like the rations he ate as a cadet at the Academy and a soldier in the Order, and the ones he eats now, as Chancellor of the Galaxy. Only in his earliest years on Arkanis, before the Republic siege, did Hux ever enjoy anything resembling civilian fare.

Hux ate prawns on Arkanis, baked in sizzling butter, eaten belowstairs, where the kitchen staff laughed and made grim jokes about the war. His mother was there beside him, as always. Always there, always with Hux, until the siege grew too deep and the servants began to die of starvation. Hux snuck her a stack of ration bars from the Commandant’s private store once, and bore his father’s beating with unflinching honour. His effort wasn’t enough to save his mother from the Republic’s blockade. He barely saved himself.

That was war. Now, apart from a few scattered cells of Resistance insurgents, there’s no more war in the Galaxy. At great cost to all sides, the Chancellor and Supreme Leader have brought an end to it.

The wine sends ripples through Hux’s head like a series of old holodrama scenes. Hux doesn’t dignify Ren’s questions with a reply. He simply waits until Ren, with his chopsticks, brings one of the offensive creatures to Hux’s lips. 

The thing smells good, Hux has to grant. Perhaps it’s the influence of the drink, or of the way Ren’s gazing at him with his heavy eyes, pupils wide. Hux takes a bite. The crunch is unfamiliar and therefore disgusting, but the taste...it’s almost good. Delicious, even. At least as nice as the strange, sweet wine.

Hux’s eyes fall shut as he eats the rest of the air shrimp. Ren’s hand is on his thigh again, stroking the inside, and then Ren’s other hand is at his lips, the chopsticks set aside. Ren’s thumb passes over Hux’s bottom lip, warm and steady, and when Hux opens his eyes, Ren is mouthing his thumb, licking at the blixus ink he swept away from Hux’s lips. His tongue is red against the smear of black. Hux wants it in his mouth.

“I knew you’d like it,” Ren says. He’s not smug, but avid, wild-eyed, like he’s full of an energy he can barely contain. His cheeks are pink, and so are the edges of his ears. Dimly, through his own haze of memory and desire, Hux recalls that the wine they’re drinking has some sort of presence in the Force.

“You can give me another if you like,” says Hux, though he’s hungry for Ren, not his decadent cuisine. He opens his mouth, leans close, gazing at Ren like he’s waiting for a kiss.

“I’ll give you everything you want,” Ren growls. He tightens his grip on Hux’s thigh and stares madly into Hux’s eyes. “You’re mine now. The past is dead. You’ll never starve again.”

With a rush of embarrassment, Hux realises Ren must have seen his maudlin memories of the siege years. He draws back, as though he could close his mind to Ren now, after he’s already seen too much. It’s not as though Hux’s past is a secret from the man with whom he’s spent nearly a decade, but he doesn’t want Ren to think of him as a habitually nostalgic person. Hux isn’t. This is only the effect of the wine. 

Ren feeds him another air shrimp, moving his hand from Hux’s lap to lay his arm heavy around Hux’s neck. Hux relaxes against Ren’s shoulder, getting used to the odd crunch of the shrimp, the pungent sea scent of the drizzled ink. Ren refills their wine, lifting the bottle with the Force, and this time, he doesn’t spill a drop.

The droid brings another course when the air shrimp are gone, and then another, and another after that one. None of the food is what Hux is used to, but with Ren petting him and whispering coarse words of encouragement, it’s not difficult to open his lips for Ren’s chopsticks and give each dish a try.

Hux settles further into the soft haze of the wine, allowing himself the occasional long glance at Ren. The Supreme Leader really is remarkably well-formed. His assertive nose, his lush mouth, his long-lashed, innocent eyes. His sharp scar, his soft jaw that gives his face a certain tender shyness. Too often, Hux forgets to notice. Tonight, Ren’s beauty is all he can see.

With chopsticks, Ren feeds Hux something green and round that pops against the roof of his mouth, bathing his tongue in a cool and fragrant liquid. If Hux weren’t dizzy with drink, he would be complaining about the odd textures and tastes, but his protests seem silly now, childish. Hux has lived on Coruscant for fourteen months now. His ruthless military brilliance has brought stability to the Galaxy. He’s a war hero. He has every right to try new things. To indulge himself. One night of decadence in the conquered Core can’t erase 38 years of strict discipline, even if it feels like pure needless danger to even be here, amongst his subjects, with only Ren’s powers as a buffer between the Chancellor and those who might wish him ill. 

In that spirit, he drifts one hand into Ren’s lap. Ren is still half-hard, from the wine or from Hux’s proximity. Or perhaps he finds something erotic in this feeding ritual. There’s a certain appeal to it for Hux, at least. It’s an extension of Ren’s service, his devotion. As a reward, Hux strokes Ren’s erection over his trousers, and shifts his body towards Ren’s on the bench.

Ren turns towards him, spreading his strong legs wider. His eyes are still wild, their tawny irises consumed by pupils blown wide and dark. His body seems to hum with suppressed energy, and strands of hair are floating up from his coiffed tresses, as though he’s caught in a one-man electrical storm.

“Do you feel it?” Ren whispers, shifting into Hux’s touch. “The Force approves of our union.”

There are many things Hux could say to this. The only thing Hux _feels_ is the swell of Ren’s cock under his diligent palm. There’s no sentient presence in the Force smiling down at them. And, most of all, this isn’t a _union_. They rule the Galaxy together. They’re colleagues, at best. Their aims align. There’s nothing more to Hux’s feelings than this shared allegiance. No matter how beautiful and sweet Ren looks like this, lifting his hips into Hux’s touch, with his lips flushed and the restaurant lights gleaming like stars in his dark eyes. 

“You’re drunk,” is what Hux says, in the end. And then, to his own horror, his nose wrinkles and his shoulders fold inward and Hux _giggles_ , actually giggles at the Supreme Leader’s solemn stare.

Ren narrows his eyes, confused. Then his face breaks too, his mouth curving into a crooked, unpractised, sharp-toothed grin.

“ _You’re_ drunk,” Ren replies triumphantly. 

It’s been years since Hux saw a smile on Ren’s face. It’s not Ren’s way, never has been. He has his dry, absurd jokes, of course, but he never smiles at them, and Hux never laughs in response. Ren looks younger like this, like an echo of the New Republic boy he was once. Ben Solo’s ghost on Kylo Ren’s scarred face.

There’s something so enticingly forbidden about the very concept of a New Republic liaison. And there’s something else, too, in the silliness of Ren’s smile. It makes Hux’s chest twist, deep inside, as though Ren has used the Force to send a spark of heat up between Hux’s lungs. Hux can’t help but bring his lips to Ren’s and tangle his hands in the Supreme Leader’s hair.

Ren tastes like sweet wine and foods with strange names. He tastes like Coruscant, like the Core Worlds, like everything Hux swore he would never embrace, even when he urged Ren to put the Order’s Imperial Capitol here on this central planet as a show of their Empire’s matchless power.

With a flicker of his tongue between Hux’s lips, Ren draws his hands up Hux’s back, pulling Hux into his lap again. This time, Hux faces Ren, straddling his thighs. Ren holds him by the waist like he’s a courtesan, and Hux kisses him messily, too far gone to care that this isn’t the time or place to get intimate with the Supreme Leader of the First Order. 

“Ren,” he whispers against Ren’s lips. “We can do anything we want.”

“What?” Ren blinks up at him, eyes starry and stupid from kissing.

“Anything we want. No one can stand against us. You could—you could fuck me right here in this café and I could scream your name and no one could do anything about it.”

“Is that what you want, Hux?” Ren reaches for his belt buckle, his eyebrows drawn together, uncertain, but willing. Hux takes him by the wrist and guides his hand away.

“No, Ren, I’m pointing it out as a simple fact. Can you believe it? I’m staggered by the scope of our victory. Our power is absolute. Do you understand?”

Ren only blinks again, his eyelids sticky. At his hairline, there are a few beads of sweat on his brow. At last, he says, “Hux, you’re so drunk.”

“I’m not! I’ve had only two glasses of wine, or three, or...not enough to tolerate you, at any rate. You’re projecting. The Force is compromising your—your judgment.”

“I can fuck you if you want,” says Ren, still focused on his favourite topic.

“Stop arousing me, Ren. I’m trying to explain something.”

Hux takes a deep breath, and notices for the first time how full he is. He never eats more than a partial ration kit’s worth of food at a time, but he’s lost count of how much he’s eaten tonight. Ren has made it easy to forget. It’s an unusual feeling in Hux’s stomach, but not an unpleasant one. He’s warm all over, with heat in his cheeks that must be a vibrant flush.

“I’m listening,” says Ren, nuzzling Hux’s cheek. “Don’t you want more fern potatoes?”

“No, no more food, stars, this has already gone too far. Don’t you see? This, in itself, is evidence of our triumph. Decadence! No one can stop me from eating whatever I want. No more Old Imperials to tell me I don’t understand warfare. No more Resistance suicide attacks on our kriffing ships! No more sieges! No more Force users spying on my thoughts for evidence of disloyalty, as if I’d _ever_ kriffing betray—” 

Ren’s face falls into a wounded scowl. Inside Hux’s head, Ren says, _I’m a Force user_.

“Oh, Ren, you’re not _Snoke_ , you sensitive creature. You barge into my head to tell me how pretty I look in my uniform. Snoke never did _that_. I swear it on my life.” 

_Snoke said you were self-serving_ , says Ren in his head, still petulant. _He was right. You only care about your own power._

“Use your words, Supreme Leader. I like your voice. Did you know I liked it? Your accent is...it’s...you’re...why don’t I ever _tell_ you how _handsome_ you are, Ren? Is it my pride? Oh, damn this. It’s because you can read my mind. You already know it all. You’re magnificent, Supreme Leader.” 

Ren brightens slightly, lips parting in another of his dim-witted, youthful expressions. Then Ren’s earlier words through the Force reach Hux’s mind at last, delayed, like light from a distant star.

Hux frowns. “It’s not _my_ power, Ren. It’s _our Empire_. You’ve had more power than you knew what to do with since the day you were kriffing born. You’re used to this. If I want to exult, it’s my right. I was nothing, a useless boy with nothing but my wits and my will, and now I’m practically the Emperor. You ought to be in awe of all I’ve achieved. And don’t bring Snoke into this. That man never said one true word to you in his execrable life.” 

“Snoke is the reason we’re here tonight,” says Ren, terribly solemn. His dark hair waves in the strange Force-summoned breeze that seems to swirl around his head. 

“What in stars’ name are you talking about? Snoke has been dead for—for four years! Unless you have new intelligence to bring to my attention. Don’t tell me I’ve been committing treason to the Order by yelling your title every night. _Supreme Leader,_ ” Hux finishes with whispered emphasis, drawing out the diminished final R into a moan and bending to brush the tip of his nose against Ren’s. 

“This is the date of my assignation,” says Ren with a seriousness out of step with Hux’s energetic mood. “The date Snoke placed me on board the _Finalizer_ eight years ago.” 

Hux draws back, wrinkling his nose. “Ah. No wonder you can’t stand my revelry. This is _your_ celebration. I’m only your escort for the night, a bit of tail to keep things interesting for you. I see clearly now.” 

Ren’s eyes widen, and he shakes his head as though the truth has hurt his precious New Republic _feelings_. “No, no, Hux, it’s—”

“Pour me another glass, Supreme Leader. Let’s have a proper celebration for little Kylo’s first big military promotion, back when you were slightly less of a kriffing thorn in my side.”

Hux pounds both his clenched hands on Ren’s chest in a let’s-get-on-with-it manner, but Ren winces as though Hux has hit him.

“No, Hux,” he snarls, casting Hux’s hands away with the Force that crackles in the air around him. “You would be celebrating too, if you weren’t obsessed with yourself. This was the best thing that ever happened to you. If Snoke hadn’t put me on the _Finalizer_ , you would still be nothing.” 

Ren is poised for a fight. If Hux were sober, he might take Ren’s insults literally, treating them as a challenge to his authority. But Hux, in spite of his declarations to the contrary, is very, very much _not_ sober. 

Because of this, Ren’s words sound different than they normally would. Hux blinks, takes them in, until Ren’s coarse expressions resolve into an unsaid picture that makes Hux’s blush deepen and his pulse speed up.

“You incorrigible treasure,” Hux says slowly. He sits back on Ren’s lap and returns his hands to Ren’s shoulders, sliding them up his shapely neck to cup his face. “Supreme Leader, I cannot believe you’ve put our personal security at risk to take me out for...what is it called in civilian life...? A _date_? Kylo. Lovely Kylo. You didn’t even let me know your classified strategy.”

Ren tips his head back. His tense anger fades as Hux strokes his thumbs along his jaw. Ren’s eyes close, and his lips part. Almost smiling, he leans into Hux’s touch.

At that moment, the edge of their table’s curtain flicks aside, and the droid slides a plate through the gap. It stares at Hux with its glowing sensors. Hux meets its gaze evenly, unfazed. Whatever thoughts its programming allows it, no one has a right to judge the Galaxy’s Chancellor now. Not now that their Empire’s power is unassailable. Not when Ren has gone to such lengths to commemorate the anniversary of their meeting. This is an occasion that requires Hux to devote himself to enjoying the night.

“Oh,” says Ren when the droid is gone, peering over Hux’s shoulder at the new plate the droid has deposited among the other half-emptied dishes. “This is a good dish. Sit next to me again. I’ll feed you.”

Hux slides off of Ren’s lap, back to the velvet bench. “I can feed myself,” he says, before remembering this is a _date_ , a chance for Ren to spoil him. For them to spoil each other. 

The prospect would nauseate him under normal circumstances. It smacks of the very Core World decadence Hux has railed against in countless speeches. But now Hux is here in the Core. A resident of Coruscant, by his own choice. Either Hux is a hypocrite, or he’s learning to adapt.

He shifts his focus to the table. On the hexagonal plate rests some sort of hexagonal jelly or blancmange, grey in colour, trembling in the current of Force-energy pouring off of Ren. Hux reaches for it with his chopsticks, but Ren shakes his head and, grave-faced, raises a spork to the opaque jelly and amputates an edge of the hexagon.

“Here,” he says, and raises it to Hux’s mouth.

The jelly dissolves on his tongue. Hux tastes sweet vanilla and Corellian cinnamon, and after, some subtle floral taste that reminds him, not unfavourably, of Ren’s expensive shampoo. Hux says so, and Ren grins, taking his own bite of the trembling confection.

“You like the way I taste,” Ren says with his mouth full.

That much is obvious. Hux wouldn’t allow Ren’s tongue in his mouth all the time if he didn’t enjoy it. Ren’s cock is a different matter, but that’s only because it’s so large, and Hux’s jaw is a wreck from holding decades of tension. He can only lick at the tip of it in an unskilled way. Hux doesn’t enjoy being unskilled at anything. But Ren doesn’t _taste_ bad, not anywhere on his body. He tastes delicious, like salt and smoke and sweat and ozone, a rival to any of the dishes set before them tonight. When they return to the Capitol, Hux fully intends to glut himself on Ren with all his senses. 

When Hux glances up from the table and catches sight of Ren’s self-satisfied smile, he realises he’s said all of this out loud.

“Go on, Chancellor,” Ren urges. “Say more. A lack of inhibition suits you.”

“Kriff,” says Hux, sinking lower in his seat, crossing his arms over his chest. The movement crushes the full silver sleeves of his cropped jacket, but he must look a mess now already. It’ll be all he can do to get out of this restaurant without tripping over his own feet in his impractical heeled shoes.

“Don’t be shy.” Ren’s voice is low, rough, insinuating. “You know I want all of that too.”

Ren extends a hand to toy with the fastener at the top of Hux’s jacket, which is a silver brooch in the shape of the emblem of the First Order. Hux sighs, resigned to his own dissipated state, and relaxes his shoulders, accepting another bite of pudding from Ren.

“That’s what we’ll do, then. A winning strategy for the rest of the evening. Shall I contact your Knights and have them bring Knife 3 to fetch us?” Hux asks, retrieving his comm from his jacket’s hidden pocket. Ren never carries his comm, even in cases when it would be far more practical than communicating by use of the Force. “You’re in no fit state to fly home. And I refuse to be seen by any transport pilots in my civilian attire.”

“You’re worried they wouldn’t recognise the face of the First Order,” Ren says lightly, squeezing Hux’s thigh. “Debauched. Giving yourself to Core World indulgence. Will you be the same Chancellor when you wake up in the morning?”

“I’ll be a Chancellor with a headache,” grouses Hux, pressing _send_ on the message to the Knights of Ren. “Unless your Force-sensitive wine has remarkable properties.” 

“It made you admit you’d like to suck my cock. That’s remarkable.”

Hux stows his comm and shoots Ren a look. “As if you didn’t know my limitations in that regard were purely physical ones. I can find absolutely no fault with your cock. Surely you can see that when you’re reading my mind.”

Ren is beaming. Another sharp-edged, genuine, foolish smile that gives Hux a flip-flopping feeling high in his chest.

“Just because I can read your mind doesn’t mean you shouldn’t say it.”

“I’ll say it, then, Ren.” Hux steels himself, turns fully towards the Supreme Leader, straightening his spine as the room seems to tilt and leave him dizzy. “You’ve done well. I have had worse nights than this one, and I expect our engagement at the Capitol will continue to satisfy me tonight.”

“Engagement,” repeats Ren, sly, reaching for Hux’s left hand. He rubs one thumb over Hux’s signet ring, polishing it, before he brings it to his lips. “Why, Chancellor, I’m honoured. I accept.”

Hux sighs. Rolls his eyes. Catches his breath. Shakes his head. Tries not to smile, and almost succeeds.

Then, slowly, he leans forward, tugs his hand away from Ren’s lips, and replaces it with his open mouth.

**Author's Note:**

> This seems as good a time as any to reveal that the luxe, slightly cracky vibe of the Arcana Imperii series has partial origins in [this piece of fanart](https://oochilka.tumblr.com/post/166537087334/the-last-thing-snoke-saw) by oochilka. I got feelings about tipsy, blushy, debauched, limp-wristed, mutually enthusiastic Kylux...and started writing, and here we all are today. This instalment is, so far, the truest in spirit to the fanart that started it all. 
> 
> Alternate title: Supreme Lightweights of the First Order. Force wine hits hard.
> 
> You can follow me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/sternfleck) and [tumblr](https://sternfleck.tumblr.com/).


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